


We Took A Vow In Summertime

by emilime



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Amnesia, Established Relationship, Love Confessions, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, but then it's not, like hollywood amnesia but even more convenient than that, like incredibly plot-convenient amnesia, not like FULL amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-11-01 17:15:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17871434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emilime/pseuds/emilime
Summary: Maxwell makes a promise.





	We Took A Vow In Summertime

**Author's Note:**

> there would be more tags on this but I'm posting this from mobile (please let me know if anything is wonky) so I can only really do established tags. anyway title is taken from Harmony Hall by Vampire Weekend, which I listened to on loop for eight hours while writing most of this.

They could never be certain how much they would remember after each death. While Maxwell had (once, he was a different man now. or maybe he had been a different man then?) enjoyed making them remember the feeling of being torn apart, of freezing, burning, starving, Charlie seemed to prefer keeping them on their toes. It was a struggle; they could come back remembering everything and traumatized, or remembering nothing and clueless. Fortunately, it was usually somewhere in between. A few lifetimes may go forgotten, but nothing crucial. Just the details would be lost.

They were in Maxwell's tent one warm summer's night, the magician's scrawny lover cradled in his arms, with the glow of the fire just barely shining through the fabric that stood between the two and the world they had been trapped in since so long ago. (He almost felt bad about that whole ordeal.) He was content with the silence, but it would seem he was the only one.

“I've been thinking,” Wilson began.

“Careful, pal. You don't want to strain anything." The joke was met with more silence, instead of the usual chuckle or even a huff of indignation. It must've been something serious. He kept his mouth shut as the scientist repositioned himself, settling back down with his eyes level to Maxwell's. There was something unreadable in those eyes.

“What if something happened to me, and I didn't remember this? If we went back to being as good as strangers?"

Maxwell paused. Wilson was, more often than not, one of the more optimistic members of their group, so this sort of talk was unusual coming from him. He didn't like it.

"That won't happen." He used his hand that wasn't pinned underneath his boyfriend to cup the man's cheek. Wilson placed his own hand over it, but didn't look reassured.

"It won't happen to you, maybe, but I'm at just as much risk as the others." Maxwell grimaced at the reminder. While Charlie played her little amnesia game with the rest of the survivors, she still had a personal (and justified) grudge against him. She wouldn’t let him forget, even if he wanted to. Well, even if he  _ didn’t _ want to; she  _ especially  _ wouldn’t let him forget if he had actually wanted to. It wasn’t much of a problem for him, though, since he wasn’t troubled by remembering. Nothing that Charlie could throw at him would measure up to the eternal torment of having to sit on that damned throne. He was brought out of his thoughts by Wilson’s voice, softer now. Sadder. “I don’t want to forget this.”

“I won’t let that happen.” He hadn’t meant to say the words, but they seemed to help, so he doubled down. “I’ll remind you. No matter how many times, however long it takes.” Wilson was smiling now, and the sight made his chest feel all strange. The scientist had a talent for doing that to him.

“Promise?”

“Yeah. I promise.”

They fell asleep soon after, and the glow of the fire gradually faded into the glow of the rising sun. Maxwell, for once, woke up feeling well-rested. Wilson didn’t wake up at all.

He took in the sight of what had, just a few hours prior, been his beloved: cold, pale face, eyes loosely shut, one thin arm stretched out as though reaching for something. After so many runs, so many deaths, Maxwell should’ve been used to the sight. He was, once. Back when his days had consisted of making Wilson’s life hell, and reflecting on how his own already was. Things were different now, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that filled him each time Wilson died. It wasn’t a good feeling. He told himself that this was no longer Wilson, that the real Wilson would be walking out of the gate any moment now, as chipper and curious as always. It didn’t work very well. He vaguely registered the sound of someone clearing their throat behind him, but didn’t bother turning.

“I see you’re having a moment, dear, but someone does need to meet him at the portal.” Wickerbottom stood at the now open door to the tent, and when he turned, he could see that her eyes were full of sympathy, though her stern face did not shift to match. Maxwell gave a curt nod and slowly stood up, only looking back at the corpse once he had left the tent.

“I trust you will see to the body.” His reply may have seemed cold or disinterested to anyone else, but the librarian understood what he truly meant.  _ Please, I can’t bear to see him like this. _

“Of course. Now you’d best hurry, we don’t want another incident on our hands, do we?” Maxwell nodded again. They both remembered all too well the time Wigfrid had come through with her memory completely wiped. He’d been forced to spend the rest of that day gathering spider glands. And the day after that. And the day after that.

On his way to the Postern, he thought more on what Wickerbottom had said. Wigfrid had been hostile for at least a week after she emerged, but they were fortunate enough that her memory returned soon after. What if that didn’t happen with Wilson? What if he never remembered him, or worse, remembered the him that was on the Throne? It took long enough to get him to trust him the first time, and if he had just had his memory erased, he might just assume Maxwell was lying, because that  _ does _ sound like something he would’ve done, and--

Wilson was there. He was there, with his stupid spiky hair, and his elbow-length gloves, and his thin frame just this side of gaunt, and his eyes shining with curiosity, and he was studying a butterfly and he was  _ alive _ . Maxwell would  _ never _ get used to that: seeing someone dead and rotting one moment and alive and well the next. It was a lot easier to deal with from afar (and when drained of every feeling other than apathy), but in person--?

He must’ve been caught staring, because Wilson began waving to him, before stopping mid-motion. He would’ve started panicking if the scientist hadn’t immediately gotten that look on his face, the one he always got right before he made a joke. (Maxwell had mixed feelings about that look.)

“Say pal, you don’t look so good!” The grin on his face was absolutely shit-eating, and Maxwell didn’t know whether to be insulted or relieved. He walked over with his usual, weird slouched saunter, coming to a stop in front of the magician and crossing his arms. “Seriously, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or, more accurately, a newly reincarnated person.” His smile turned kind, shifted into the smile that made Maxwell's insides twist in a way he didn’t quite have the words for. Actions speak louder than words, anyway. If anyone asked, that was the reason why he yanked Wilson into a hug and held onto him for dear life, burying his face into his neck to stifle a sob. The man tensed in his arms, but he thought nothing of it. “Well, this is, uh, out of the ordinary, but alright. Glad to see you too?”

Oh god.

Maxwell pulled away as though he’d been burned.

He didn’t remember, did he?

He didn’t remember.

* * *

 

“Name?"

"Wilson Percival Higgsbury."

"Occupation?"

"Scientist."

"Age?"

"Considering how time works-- or rather, doesn't-- around here, I'm not quite sure anymore.” He chuckled, the kind of chuckle one does in a vain attempt to stave off existential crises. “Either way, older than I'd care to admit."

Maxwell was no stranger to these information checks. Granted, he'd never had to go through one himself (for obvious reasons), but he was usually the one conducting them. This time, however, he didn't think he'd be able to make it through the whole process (once again for obvious reasons, though not as obvious to the others, and certainly not to Wilson anymore. the thought made him feel sick, so he cut the tangent short.) so he’d asked Wickerbottom to take over for him.

"Alright,” she announced, nodding decisively, “you're good to go." She placed a hand on his shoulder and gave him what Maxwell could only assume was a smile. It was hard to tell with her sometimes. "Glad to have you back, dear."

He grinned his lopsided grin at her, and Maxwell wanted to die. “Thank you, ma’am. It’s good to be back.” He glanced around the near-empty camp, and then back to Wickerbottom. “Is everyone else out on errands?”

“Something like that, yes. The children should be back before sunset, and the rest before nightfall.” Wilson went to speak, but she continued. “All of our needs have been accounted for, dear. You needn’t worry. Just get some rest; resurrection is a tiring ordeal.” She gave his shoulder a final pat and headed back into her tent, leaving the two alone in the clearing. Maxwell could feel his fingernails digging into his palms, but couldn’t bring himself to unclench his fists. He knew he should say something, anything, but his throat was tight and his teeth gritted, so he wouldn’t be able to get the words out even if he could muster them up. So he sat there silently, hoping beyond hope that Wilson would just leave. (A part of him wanted Wilson to never leave him ever again, but he refused to address that.) But of course, Wilson being Wilson, he couldn't do what Maxwell wanted him to do. Some things never changed, he supposed.

"Maxwell?" His voice practically oozed concern, and it broke what little the man had left of a heart.

"What do you want now, Higgsbury?" It came out harsher than he'd intended, but there was nothing he could do about it now. Wilson sighed and crossed his arms, unfazed by the barb.

"I don't understand you sometimes." He paused. "Well, most of the time. But you're being especially hard to understand today." His face softened, and Maxwell noticed there was a certain sadness behind it. He didn't know what to make of that. “Are you alright?”

Maxwell didn't know how to answer that, because he  _ wasn't _ alright, but he couldn't rightly go telling Wilson the reason why. As though in response to the thought, an image resurfaced in his mind: Wilson, pressed up against him, his voice shaky and eyes brimmed with tears. Himself making a promise.

Waking up to Wilson's lifeless body.

He couldn't even keep a promise to a corpse. What did that say about him?

A hand landed on his shoulder, and he recoiled from the sudden contact. "Sorry!" Wilson had, at some point during his crisis, come to his side, and now stood with his hands raised in front of him, palms out. A deliberately non-threatening gesture, as though Maxwell were some sort of wild animal. "Sorry. I should've asked first." They fell back into an uncomfortable silence. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Wilson wringing his hands, before stopping to fiddle with the cuffs of his sleeves, stopping again and switching back, and so on. Maxwell heaved a sigh, and the sound seemed to break the scientist out of the cycle. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about, pal.” The words sounded inauthentic, even to his own ears. Wilson didn’t buy it, and, of course, he didn’t drop the subject.

“It’s never a good idea to bottle things up, Max.”

“Just drop it!” That one came out as a shout, and Wilson flinched.  _ Good going, idiot. _ He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed again. “It’s not important, all right? Don’t worry about it.” He was careful to keep his volume down this time. “Please.” He hadn’t meant to say that last part, and he hated the tremble that had snuck its way into his voice, hated the way that the other man’s expression twisted in response.

He paused before he replied. “Alright. Just--” He hesitated, as though unsure whether or not he should continue. “Just know that if you ever need to talk, I’m here for you. Okay?”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

* * *

 

He didn’t talk to him about it. He just couldn’t. Days came and went, the seasons turned, and Maxwell continued to suffer in silence. For the first few weeks he'd sometimes catch Wilson looking at him with that strange look of his, but as time went by it happened less and less. Perhaps he assumed the issue had worked itself out. If only he knew.

Before he knew it, winter had arrived, and he couldn't have been more miserable. Even through layers of fur, both beefalo and bearger, the cold still pierced his skin and seeped into his bones. He had taken to carrying two thermal stones at all times, and any hours that were not occupied by gathering resources (read: having his shadows gather resources for him) or sleeping were spent by the fire. It was only logical (oh, how he hated logic. that was one of the reasons he became a magician: to defy the logical) that it would be by the fire where Wilson would eventually find him.

"Hey." He plopped down on the log next to Maxwell, and the taller man couldn't help but let his gaze linger on the many bandages adorning the other's face and arms. The victory against the Deerclops had been hard-won, and no one had gone without a few scrapes or bruises. (Excepting himself, of course. The very nature of his fighting style meant he was allowed to stay on the sidelines.) Wilson, as attentive as ever, picked up on the attention immediately. He waved a hand dismissively. “Just a couple scratches; Wes insisted upon treating them.” 

“I see.” ‘A couple’ seemed like an understatement, but he didn’t push the issue. Maxwell tossed another stick into the pit, watching it slowly catch fire. It didn’t make him any warmer, but it gave him something to focus his attention on other than the man by his side.

“I’ve been thinking,” Wilson began, and it reminded him far too much of another situation. He swallowed around the lump in his throat, and forced himself to make eye contact.

“Yeah? What about, pal?” This, apparently, was the wrong thing to say, because Wilson furrowed his brows and frowned. Not an upset frown, more confused.

“See, that’s just the thing. Normally you’d have responded with some sort of joke. Something along the lines of ‘that’s dangerous, pal, you might strain something--’” Maxwell wasn’t sure if he should be more offended by the unflattering impression (and a quite shoddy one at that) or the fact that he was apparently so predictable. Only after a moment did he realize that Wilson was still going. “--and you’ve just been acting so strange ever since, well, ever since I died, which is something I never thought I’d say but by god I never thought I’d be somewhere where shadows try to kill you either, but--” Maxwell held up a hand, and Wilson quieted.

“Is there a point to this particular tangent, Higgsbury?” He was irritated now, both at Wilson and at himself. Wilson had promised to drop it, but there would be nothing to drop if Maxwell had kept his own promise in the first place. His irritation must’ve come across in his voice, if his companion’s crestfallen face was anything to go by. He took a deep breath, as though preparing himself, before cutting right to the chase.

“Is… is it me? Did I do something wrong?” Maxwell’s irritation was immediately replaced with something worse, something dark and heavy. It was a sadness of some sort, of that he was sure, but other than that it was hard to describe. Fearful? What would he be afraid of? (Of losing the one person he’s loved since he entered this god-forsaken place, a part of him helpfully provided.) Wilson stared at the fire, unable to meet Maxwell’s eyes.

He sat for a second, opening and closing his mouth, unable to form a coherent statement. “Why would you think that?” he finally managed, and Wilson kicked up a cloud of dirt with the heel of his shoe.

“I didn’t want to believe it, but I asked the others about it and they confirmed that I’m the only one you’ve been acting weird around.” He gave a humorless chuckle. “I could tell you were trying to avoid me, you know.” It was true, Maxwell  _ had _ been trying to avoid him, but for a completely different reason.

“Higgsbury, I--”

“If I did something you could’ve just told me to my face--”

“Listen--"

“--I can take criticism! I wouldn’t have gotten angry--”

“Wilson!” He might’ve been a tad louder than intended, but it got the man to stop his blathering, so Maxwell counted it as a success. He took a deep breath, and released it with a sigh. “Do you really want to know why I’ve been acting the way I have?” Wilson nodded, his eyes focused. God, he was really going to do this, wasn’t he? “Alright. Just don’t go complaining when it’s not what you were hoping for.”

He placed a hand on the shorter man's cheek, praying that he couldn't feel the way it was shaking, and leaned in, just barely brushing their lips together before pulling away completely. Wilson looked shell-shocked, to say the least, and Maxwell dragged a hand over his own face with a groan. "See? This was a terrible idea." He turned his head, unable to bear looking back at the man with whom he'd probably just ruined his friendship. "I guess that's what I get for hoping things would be the same," he tacked on, muttered to himself.

"The..." He could see gears turning in Wilson's head. (Nothing new there; the man thought too much for his own good.) "The same?" Christ, he'd heard that? "I don't understand."

Maxwell sighed again, still refusing to make eye contact. “We--” He fumbled for the right words. They'd never really put a name to their relationship back then. "-- _ had something _ , before you-- before you died." He had to suppress the urge to wince. He didn't like thinking back on that morning. “I promised I would tell you. Looks like I didn't even do a very good job of that, huh pal?"

He glanced back at Wilson to find him with yet another unreadable expression on his face. However, he didn't have time to think on it, as the scientist grabbed two fistfuls of his coat and pulled him down, bringing their mouths together once more. Maxwell gladly followed his lead, threading his fingers through the man's ridiculous hair (he still had no idea how it stayed styled like that without product, and he knew _ everything _ ) because  _ god _ had he missed this.

They eventually (but not easily) pulled apart, and Wilson stared at him incredulously. "Wait. I died last summer."

Maxwell grimaced. “Yes."

"You've been--” He made a series of elaborate hand gestures, but somehow he understood. "--since last summer."

"Truly, your intuition knows no bounds, pal."

Wilson ran a hand through his hair unconsciously, a motion Maxwell had seen many times, from both on and off the Throne. "Why?"

He paused. "Pardon?"

"Why did you wait so long?" He cocked his head to the side inquisitively, and the magician had to resist the urge to just kiss him again instead of answering. Unfortunately, he had a feeling the issue wouldn't be let go until he gave a satisfactory answer.

He sighed. “I couldn't exactly guarantee that you still felt the same, you know." He would've normally stopped there (heck, normally he wouldn't have even been having this conversation), but something made him keep going. “I didn't want to ruin our friendship over something like this. You, uh… you really mean a lot to me, pal."

Wilson reached up and gently held Maxwell's face between his hands. "No matter how many times I die, or how much I forget, I'm still me. And I don't think there's a single version of me that wouldn't fall in love with you, Max.” Oh boy, he could feel himself starting get misty-eyed. He wiped the tears away with the back of his hand, and Wilson smirked. “Going soft, old man?"

He let out a laugh. "You wish, Higgsbury."

**Author's Note:**

> I've been sick so the ending isn't as good as it could've been, but at least I finished it. I also apologize if the characterization isn't quite right, I'm pretty new to DS. For those of you who have been waiting for the epilogue for As the World Turns to Dust, I'm so sorry. If you want to contact me, follow me, or accuse me of violating the Geneva Conventions, you can find me at softwaluigi on Tumblr.


End file.
